you hit me & it felt like a kiss (i can hear sirens)
by possibilist
Summary: 'You pause behind the tall bar at the edge of the room and frown—with a bit of relief—when you see your mom, tangled and curled brown hair, tired eyes, wearing a Columbia English Department t-shirt and boxers, curling up on the couch with what you know is a cup of chamomile tea.' Fababies, Faberry Week Day Seven: Nightmares.


[summary: 'You pause behind the tall bar at the edge of the room and frown—with a bit of relief—when you see your mom, tangled and curled brown hair, tired eyes, wearing a Columbia English Department t-shirt and boxers, curling up on the couch with what you know is a cup of chamomile tea.' Fababies, Faberry Week Day Seven: Nightmares.]

**...**

**you hit me & it felt like a kiss (i can hear sirens)**

**.**

_we've been wrong this whole time: blood isn't blue in our bodies, it doesn't shock itself red with oxygen when it's loosed from fragile banks. what's blue is how our bodies get in the way, the filtering from within to without, blood its own color. the body lying, always lying.  
_—Trevor Dane Ketner, "xxii"

…

You're confused at first—something pulls you from your sleep and when you glance at your phone, it's 3:17 am. You certainly share some of your mother's dramatics, undoubtedly, so when you hear quiet clattering somewhere from the living room or kitchen, your mind spins with scary possibilities.

Nora is in her second term at Yale and your mom—Quinn—is at some conference at Stanford, so it would be up to you to vanquish some evil villains from your apartment. You're in good shape because of dance, and by some miracle, as your aunts joke, you're actually pretty tall, but you're not all that physically imposing, all things considered. You throw one of Gerard's Trinity Lacrosse t-shirts on—you used to make fun of the rest of your family's propensity for stealing clothes from their respective partners, but now you get it—and sneak out of your room as quietly as possible, padding softly down the hardwood toward the open living room. You pause behind the tall bar at the edge of the room and frown—with a bit of relief—when you see your mom, tangled and curled brown hair, tired eyes, wearing a Columbia English Department t-shirt and boxers, curling up on the couch with what you know is a cup of chamomile tea.

You clear your throat so you don't startle her and make your way into the living room, and when she looks up at you, there are circles under her eyes and the brown irises that you've inherited are surrounded by red, shining with unshed tears.

"Ollie," she says softly, frowning. "I'm sorry if I woke you."

You shake your head and lie, "I was between sleep cycles."

She laughs roughly and then looks at you so fondly; your parents have always put some sort of pressure on your—and Nora—to work hard at the things you adore, and, to be fair, they are both brilliant in their own right. There are moments of stifling expectations—mostly from other people when they learn who your moms are—but then they look at you so sweetly, or sing or write about you and your sister, that you have never doubted their love, no matter what Nora gets on her critical theory essay or if you get the lead in the latest performance at school. "You remind me so much of your mom sometimes," she says softly.

You roll your eyes good-naturedly and sit down on the couch. "Please don't ever tell me I'm that nerdy."

"That's Nora," she says. "We're much cooler."

You laugh and she's seemed to have grown a bit more peaceful. You worry your bottom lip for a few moments before you ask, "Are you okay?"

She nods. "I'm just missing Mom."

You take in the slight tremble of her hands against the mug. "You sure?"

She puts down the mug on the coffee table and sighs, drags a hand through her hair. "You don't need to worry."

"Mom," you say. "I'm sixteen, not, like, four."

"Don't remind me," she grumbles, but then sighs. "I just had a nightmare," she admits.

You nod—you've been aware of both of their nightmares for as long as you can remember, and as you've gotten older, you've learned about their past more and more. You know—mainly from your Aunt Santana and your Uncle Robert, but also from your moms themselves sitting down and having these very somber discussions with you and Nora that, when you were a bit younger, found ridiculously formal, but now they just break your heart—about Quinn's scars, about how hard Rachel fought to help her heal, how much she had to heal herself.

You've noticed that there are certain times where the nightmares are worse, but the last time you can remember either one of your moms looking this distraught was the end of Nora's junior year, when she'd come to them crying, honest, and told them about how she was struggling with food. You know it had broken both of them, especially Quinn, but they'd handled it quite well, included you in a few family therapy sessions too—and now Nora is healthy and bright and loving university, sending you goofy pictures and Skyping with you frequently. It's always been worse when Quinn got sick, but she's been okay lately.

"Do you want to talk about it?" you ask.

She sucks in a breath. "I don't really remember it," she says. She pats your back. "You'll understand this, but it's strange and lonely to sleep in an empty bed after sharing it with someone you love for so many years."

"Ew, gross, Mom," you say, and she laughs. "But really, I'm sure Mom misses you just as much."

She smiles softly into her tea.

"Ready to go back to sleep?" you ask, which reminds you so many times of your nightmares when you were small, wedged between the two of them in their big, soft bed, Quinn running her fingers through your tangled hair as Rachel sang.

She nods and you follow her down the hall, giving her a firm hug before you head into your room.

"Thanks, Oliver," she says. "Sleep well."

"I love you," you say.

"I love you too."

.

You're watching a movie, leaning your head against Gerard's shoulder, on your couch and texting Nora when Quinn clumsily drags her suitcase into the foyer, calling a hello. You smile at Gerard and walk to greet her, give her a big hug. She looks tired from her flight and you know she's a bit loopy from the anti-anxiety medication she takes—she's always been a terrible flyer—but she hugs you tightly.

She smiles genuinely at Gerard and gives him a hug too—you're entirely sure, now, that her medication hasn't worn off completely, although both of your moms have certainly come around to him—and then Rachel hurries from the kitchen, still wearing an apron, a bit of flour across her cheek.

You roll your eyes and take Gerard's hand, lead him back toward the couch when Quinn brushes her thumb over the flour, laughing fondly, and then they start to kiss.

"The PDA rule applies to you two as well," you shout, and Gerard laughs.

You text Nora, _Moms are making out again._

She responds, _gross. say hi to them for me though._

"They're sort of cute," he says.

"They're my moms. No."

He smiles and kisses your cheek, settling back in beside you on the couch.

A bit later after homemade pizza for dinner, they sit on the loveseat across from you, and it doesn't take long for both of them to fall asleep, tangled with each other. You can always imagine them younger in these moments, softer, in the old apartment they first shared when their careers were just beginning, before film deals and tenure.

"Sleep well, Moms," you say, taking Gerard by the hand to your bed; you have so much love to learn, so you kiss the back of his neck, lace your fingers, and hold him tight.


End file.
